


The Quietest of Blossoms

by ScribereEstAgere



Category: Law & Order: Criminal Intent
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Post-Amends, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:37:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1386229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribereEstAgere/pseuds/ScribereEstAgere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I start crying again and I can’t help feeling guilty because I love this man in front of me more than I ever loved Joe. Post-Amends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quietest of Blossoms

**Author's Note:**

> For the ci_fans_unite prompt challenge: Season seven ‘Amends’: Alex visits Joe’s parents after they have caught the real killer.
> 
> **These characters do not belong to me.**

//

 

_there is no action kind enough to express heartbreak._  
I am left  
shut,  
the quietest of blossoms. 

_~ Stella Padnos, Start/The Stopping_

 

//

 

I don’t talk to Bobby for three days after Manny Beltran is arrested. I go into a kind of hiding, I suppose. Ross gives me a week’s personal leave without even asking and I don’t care and I don’t say anything, but I’m thankful. I sleep a lot, and when I’m not sleeping I pace. When I’m not pacing, I drink wine. After I drink wine, I sleep some more and when I wake up it starts all over again.

I line up empty bottles, blue green yellow, along the windowsill. One. Two. Three. Loyal little officers.

Manny Beltran. He was a kid when it happened, young and dumb and impressionable, and now he’s older and not so dumb and trying to do something good with his life. And here we come, Bobby and I, to fuck everything up, everything he’s worked for, just like he fucked it all up for Joe and me nine years ago. I should feel like justice has been served, I should feel some measure of relief that it’s finally over, mystery solved, case essentially closed, but I can’t. I can’t sleep without artificial stimulants and not just because he’s a doctor now, or because of his youth, but because of his big, startled eyes and the old, haunted guilt just behind them and his trembling hands and halting voice and stupid, stupid name.

Manny Beltran.

I can’t get those four syllables out of my head. I repeat them like a mantra for three days, hoping for some kind of lightning bolt of clarity.

Manny Beltran.

Joe’s killer.

Manny _fucking_ Beltran. Manny Manny Manny _Mannymannymanny—_.

Nothing strikes except for a tremendous headache.

When I’m pacing I try to picture how it all went down, so many years ago. I think about Manny, with a little boy’s face all nerves and tics trying so damn hard to be grown up, trying to impress his cousin and Minaya. I picture him with the cigarette and the gun. And I try to picture Joe, _my husband_ , standing there, not knowing what’s coming, and see, this is the tricky part, the part that gives me the biggest headache of all. Joe’s face is the hardest to see, no matter how tight I close my eyes, no matter how much wine I drink. I can’t _see his face_. How funny is that?

Not too fucking funny, I realize.

I realize nothing is too fucking funny at the moment, really.

On the fourth day I do get hit by a lightning bolt. A small one, but a painful one just the same. Right between the eyes.

I finally realize who it is I have to see, who else besides me needs some closure.

 

//

 

The drive to Cora Dutton’s house is sweetly familiar, like the shape of my own face, my favourite sweatshirt, the scent of my sheets when they haven’t been washed for two weeks. I haven’t been here in more than three years, since Joe Sr. died of a heart attack on a warm May afternoon while mowing the back yard.

“It was the stress,” Cora told me after the funeral. “He was never the same after Joe died.”

I’d wanted to tell her at the time that none of us was the same after Joe died, _life_ wasn’t the same, but I hadn’t. I’d only nodded and hugged my former mother-in-law and promised to stay in touch, but of course had not.

The house is small and neat and exactly as I remember. I park but I can’t get out of my car. I just sit and stare and wonder why I’m here and what I’m going to say and why on earth I didn’t call first. I think I might cry and I really don’t want to do that. I want to stay calm and cool and rational.

Above all, I do not want to cry.

And of course, of course, right then my cell rings.

“Where are you?” He sounds unsure, like he’s not allowed to ask, not allowed to care.

“I’m…sitting outside Joe’s mother’s house.” I feel the sudden, familiar sting of tears. I don’t want him to know I’m about to cry, so I clear my throat once, twice.

“Are you okay?” But of course he knows I’m not and I love him for that. I do. I love him. I’m so fucking stupid.

“I’m fine.” I try to take a breath without my nose making that pre-weeping wet and snotty sniffle.

“All right,” he says quietly and I suddenly wish he was _here_ , right beside me, holding my hand, maybe, which is pretty funny because he’s never even touched my goddamn hand. Once. Get a grip, Alex. “Will you…call me later? Let me know how it went?”

I nod. “Yes,” I whisper, then hang up before I do something idiotic, like tell him how I’m feeling.

I get out of the car. I walk up to the door. I listen to the hammering of my heart blot out all other sound and fill my ears with its erratic rolling _thudthudthud_. I see my finger move up and in. It rings the doorbell. I wait.

 

//

 

We used to be the same size, Cora and me. We used to measure ourselves, back to back, just for fun, to see if I was growing, or she was shrinking. I think about this as I ring the bell again, wonder if I should just turn around and go back where I came from when suddenly she’s there, all wide eyes and serene smile. She doesn’t seem at all surprised to see her former daughter-in-law standing on her front porch.

I’m small, but Cora is smaller, and I know I haven’t grown.

“Alex,” is all she says and pulls me inside. The house even _smells_ the same, over sanitized and musty at the same time. She hugs me tight, then holds me at arms’ length, studies me.

“You look tired.”

“I am.”

She makes me sit on the same pink velveteen loveseat where Joe and I once had sex while she fixes us tea. Nothing has changed. Nothing, except for a large, conspicuous family photo of Joe’s sister Angela, blonde, beautiful Angela and her blonde, perfect husband and children, which hangs in a place of honour over the non-operational fireplace.

Angela always hated me.

“How is your family?” Cora hands me a chipped green mug that I clutch gratefully. My hands are cold and trembling.

“Good, fine. Everyone is…fine.” It’s not exactly true, but it’s all I’m prepared to tell her. She seems to accept this half-truth without question.

“Your sister?”

“Excellent. Busy.”

“And your son?”

I smile. “He’s not my son, Cora. He’s my nephew.” We’ve had this discussion before.

She makes a noise and waves a dismissive hand. “You gave birth to him.”

“Yes…but _biologically_ …”

She makes a noise that sounds like _pshaw_. I gulp my tea, then cough because it’s too hot. I put the mug down and pick up one of her Royal Doulton figurines. Little Bo Peep. I clutch it, instead.

“How old are you now, Alex?”

“43.”

“Joe would have been 44 this year.”

I nod.

She cocks her head at me, appraising.

“Not too old for another baby.”

I don’t know how to answer this, so I don’t.

She smoothes her skirt around her knees, folds her hands primly.

“I knew about the pregnancy scare, you know.”

I’m too surprised to be embarrassed. 1992. We’d been dating for almost a year. Barefoot in the still, blue light of my tiny apartment bathroom. One hand over my mouth, one clutching the beige pee stick, Joe sitting on the edge of the tub, watching, waiting. Two weeks late. Two pink lines. It’s the reason I accepted his second marriage proposal.

“We’ll be okay, right? Everything will be fine. You’ll see. Don’t worry,” he’d whispered into my hair. I’d nodded convulsively, rigid with fear and uncertainty.

Two days later I got my period.

“He _told_ you about that?”

She nods.

“I was so upset,” I admit, because I can, now.

She looks at me, steady, still.

“He wasn’t. He was thrilled.”

The weight of that statement fills the space between us so completely there is room for no other words.

“I guess you should tell me why you’re here.” She says this quietly and it startles me.

I stare down at Bo’s shiny, placid face, her shellacked golden curls.

“There was a …development…in Joe’s case.” I stop, wonder how to proceed. Cora just waits. I clear my throat. “We…my partner and I…arrested…Joe’s killer. The real killer.”

Still she waits. I look up.

“The guy…Ray Delgado, the one arrested originally...well. He…it turns out he didn’t _do it_ after all.”

Still nothing.

“He said all along he was…innocent.” I laugh, but it’s not funny.

Nothing is too fucking funny at the moment.

And it all sounds so stupid when I say it out loud.

“And…uh…we found the guy who _did_ do it. Shot Joe.” I take a deep breath. “I mean, he was just a kid and everything, at the time, and I think it was a mistake, I really do…but still. He _did_ it and he admitted to it and…I guess I thought you’d…you know…like to know.”

I have nothing else to say.

Cora is looking out the window.

“Did…you hear me?”

She moves her eyes, but not her head.

“I did.”

“And?”

She smoothes her skirt again.

“And…I’m happy for you and your partner, Alex. I’m sure you’ll be suitably commended for your detective work. But Joe is still dead, you understand. And Joseph. Joseph is still dead. And Angela…has moved upstate. I rarely see her, or my grandchildren.” She lifts her narrow shoulders, lets them fall. “This…arrest? It changes nothing. It _means_ nothing to me.”

Nothing.

Well.

This is not going at all like I’d planned.

“It doesn’t mean nothing to me,” I say. “And I like to think it doesn’t mean nothing to Joe.”

She sighs.

“Your partner…Bobby, right?”

I nod. Jesus. She remembers his name. I must have talked about him before, but I don’t remember when, or why. I try to recall the last time I spoke to Cora. Birthday? Christmas? Arbour Day? Fuck. I’m turning the figurine around and around in my hands which are slick with sweat and slipping against the porcelain. I might drop the stupid thing, but I can’t stop. If I smoked I’d be doing that, but instead I caress Little Bo Peep and chew frantically on the inside of my cheek. My eyes, I’m sure, are as shiny as her face.

“Do you care for him?”

There is no point lying to this woman. I’ve never been able to and really, what’s the point now?

I nod.

“Do you love him?”

Lord.

I nod. I swallow. “But—”

But _what_? I stop myself because I suddenly have no idea what I’m going to say. _But what_?

She smiles.

“Does he love you?”

That does it. I put Bo down next to her three little sheep and scrub my wet palms against my jeans.

“Cora—”

She waves a hand.

“Do you think you’ll ever have a baby?” She says instead.

Again with this.

“I…already did.”

She smiles at me and it’s a smile I can’t quite read.

“I mean one with _Bobby_.”

Well, this is entering territory I’m pretty much unwilling to venture into now, or ever, really. She catches me staring at Angela’s family portrait. God, it’s big. They look like _models_ for christ’s sake. I’m not really looking _at_ it, but I have nowhere else to put my eyes right now.

“She was always jealous of you, you know.”

Again, I’m surprised and don’t bother to hide it. I laugh.

“Angela? Jealous?”

Cora nods. “Your intelligence, capability, warmth. You were everything she wasn’t and she knew we were all crazy about you. That _Joe_ was crazy about you. Angela wanted to _be_ you, and she knew she never would be, so she decided to hate you, instead. It was a lot easier for her.”

I’m suddenly exhausted. I’m exhausted and I need to go _home_.

I need to see Bobby.

I stand and mumble something about an early shift and lots of paperwork and Cora doesn’t try to talk me into staying longer. She follows me to the door, takes my hands in hers and studies my face. Now I have nowhere else to look but at her and she knows this.

“Are you happy, Alex?” But before I can answer her she squeezes my fingers tight. “You know Joe would want you to be happy, right?”

Would he? I guess he would. Who knows? He’s been dead for longer than I knew him, longer than we were married. Maybe he’s off somewhere having an endless, drunken party with all his fellow fallen officers. Maybe he’s still undercover. Maybe he’s nowhere at all. I have a hard time remembering very much about Joe anymore. Opening that evidence box was the closest I’d come to really remembering him for so long and when I closed it up again, something else closed up inside me, too.

Only, how can I tell his mother that?

So, I nod and smile and Cora seems happy with that. She pulls me to her and kisses my cheek. She smells like Noxzema and hairspray.

“Take care, drive safe.”

She doesn’t tell me to stay in touch, and this time, for the first time, I don’t say I will.

As I drive away I can see her in my rearview mirror. She’s standing on the porch, one hand pressed to her mouth, the other raised and waving. The sun is shining and flowers are nodding and everything looks very peaceful.

I like to remember her that way.

 

//

 

I don’t think about Cora much on the drive home. I don’t think about Joe or Joe Sr., or Angela and her perfect husband and perfect children. I don’t even think about Manny Beltran, for the first time in days.

Instead I think about Bobby. I think about his kindness and his kind face and his low, kind voice, the width of him, the curl of his hair and the infinite angles of his hands when he talks. I think about him and _his_ pain, because god knows he’s had enough of it in his life. I think about his laugh, the way he cuts his eyes to me, saying everything without saying anything at all. I think about how I know he _wants_ to touch me, all the time, but doesn’t, can’t. I think about the way he calls me when he’s worried I’m not all right.

I think about the first time he called me Alex, approximately four days ago.

 

//

 

The first thing I see is the flowers.

I let myself into my apartment and immediately I know he’s here. I don’t see him, but I see the flowers — a riot of wildflowers, blue green yellow, in a tall drinking glass because he couldn’t find a vase, I guess — and I know he’s here and that knowledge is enough to make up for the past six hours. It calms me.

He’s _here._

I slide off my shoes and let my coat fall at my feet. I’m suddenly more tired than I ever remember being and I just want to _see him_. The room is quiet and dark but I think I can hear his low, quiet breaths. Yes. I find him slumped in the armchair, his bulk more than filling its space. I stand in front of him for a long time, just watching. Without realizing it, I start breathing in time with him and that calms me even more.

I want to touch him. I really do. I never, ever touch him, and he’s asleep and in my apartment and I want to touch him, before he wakes up and the moment has passed. I reach out and let my fingers brush the top of his head, but it’s not enough, I want more, so I let my fingers move down the side of his face and my hand, the palm, cups his cheek, lightly, but enough to satisfy me for now. He sighs in his sleep and turns his head into my hand. Something inside me swells.

I’ve spent days and days doing nothing else but think about my husband and talk about my husband and dissect my past and reflect on everything that’s been lost and mourn the children we never had, my husband and I.

I start crying again and I can’t help feeling guilty because I love this man in front of me more than I ever loved Joe.

 

//

 

He wakes up when I finally take my hand away.

“Thank you,” I say first of all. He frowns, thinking.

“Oh. The flowers,” he says, pleased.

I smile.

“Yeah, those too.”

He shifts.

“What are you doing here?” I say then, because I can’t think of anything else appropriate. He watches me, very alert for someone who just woke up. He can probably tell I’ve been crying, but he doesn’t say anything and I don’t either.

“I was…concerned,” is all he says, but it’s enough. It’s nice to know someone thinks about me. I mean, someone other than my parents.

I’m so fucking tired and I’m so fucking sad and so many other things I can’t even find words for at the moment. I think about looking for the right words, but that makes me even sadder and more tired, so before I think about anything else I lean forward and kiss him. I kind of mean to kiss his cheek, but I kind of miss and my mouth lands on his mouth and I don’t even bother to correct myself. And to add to it, I put my hands on his neck, kind of up by his jaw and I pull myself closer, or pull him closer, I don’t even know. He’s surprised, of course, but to my infinite relief he doesn’t pull away or yell or even make a what-the-fuck face. I know this because I keep my eyes open and watch, just in case. What he does do is put one hand on my waist — I can feel its weight and heat through my shirt — and the other on the back of my neck and he pulls _me_ closer.

“Alex—” he says and something in me swells again and almost bursts. I pull away.

“What?” he says. I shake my head.

“Say it again.”

“Say…”

“My _name_.”

“Okay. Alex. Alex. AlexAlex _Alex—_ ”

He starts kissing my face, my chin. My cheeks, which are wet, but he doesn’t say a word. He just keeps kissing me.

Finally, I close my eyes.

 

//

 

He’s heavy.

I don’t realize it at first because we’re too busy trying to take each other’s clothes off, too busy trying to reach each other’s skin. All I can hear is laboured breathing and the sound of fabric being pulled and stretched in the wrong directions. My hair gets caught on a button of my shirt when he pulls it over my head and I wince.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. He stops, takes his hands away, makes angles. “I haven’t…done this…for…uh…”

I might start crying _again_ so I stop him with my mouth and my hands anywhere I can put them and I guess it works because then his mouth and hands are on _me_ and it’s good and it’s enough to make me forget about pretty much everything else.

Then we’re on my bed and there’s a long expanse of skin between us and I try to remember the last time I was completely naked with another human being and it might have been when I gave birth, so I shove _that_ thought away pretty fast and concentrate on kissing Bobby and touching Bobby and trying to remember the mechanics of how it all works and where it all goes.

Later I will remember every single thing he does and how it makes me feel.

He eases into me and it’s good but it’s not _enough_ and I pull him closer, tighter until he can hardly move, but then he does, and I do, too and I come faster than I ever have in my life because it’s him and they say the brain is the biggest sex organ and, yeah, I’d have to agree.

He comes with a slow shudder but not a sound and ends up with his face in the side of my neck and I can feel his shallow, hot breaths there. I’m not worried about crying anymore, but I just might implode or disintegrate so I wrap my arms around him as best I can and just listen to the soft sounds of after-sex and then I realize how _heavy_ he really is.

“I need to get off you, he says.

“Okay,” I say, but I don’t let him go.

“Eam— _Alex_ ,” he says again. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

And I nod but I still don’t let him go.

 

//

 

We lie on our backs. He’s holding my hand, and I feel a bit lonely, but it’s all right.

“What do you think you’d be doing now…if Joe hadn’t…?”

It’s a question I’ve considered a thousand times in the past nine years. What would I be doing? I’d still be married, I guess, probably with my own children, one or two. I’d still be working, I think. I hope. I’d be a middle-aged married woman with a fairly successful career and a mortgage and a husband who loved me most of the time and kids and a dog and.

I let out the breath I’ve been holding.

I shake my head slowly, left, right.

Because honestly, I don’t know.

I know I wouldn’t be _here_ , with Bobby, and that knowledge makes me sadder and lonelier than anything else, and it also makes me want to laugh. It’s all so fucking _strange._

It’s dark and I don’t want morning to come, at least not for a long, long time. I don’t have a clue how we’re going to deal with this, all this raw emotion and pale nakedness and mouths and fingers and god, the things I _said_ to him. The things I _did_ to him.

The things he did to _me_.

I thought I was done with the tears, but apparently not, _shit_ , so I swipe my hand across my face and turn to him and kiss him one more time, hard, on the mouth, digging my fingers into his shoulders. He lets me finish, then kisses me, much more softly and sweetly, in return.

“Are you…all right?” he says in the dark. I feel him shift, move a little closer. He closes his fingers over mine a bit more tightly. I close my eyes and allow myself a very small smile.

Everything is quiet.

“Yeah.” I take a deep breath. “I am.”

 

//

 

_Fin_


End file.
